Hostile
by dear cecil
Summary: Snipers and Spies just weren't made to mix. All they do is fight, fight, fight.


The RED Sniper gritted his teeth as he pulled at one of the arrows in his arm, grunting as the tip slid through his flesh for a second time, tearing at the nerves and spilling more blood. "God damn," he muttered as he threw it to the ground. Ever since the BLU Sniper had gotten his Huntsman through the mail order, he'd been crazy with it, shooting the RED team as often and as easily as though they were hay bale targets rather than shouting, running men.

He pulled his kukri out and ignored the pain in his arm. He was a man on a mission, and that mission was to slit the man's throat. Slaughter him like the pig he was showing himself to be when he guffawed over their wounds.

The RED Sniper had just run past (and beheaded, rather more easily than he thought he should have been able to) the BLU Scout, and was making his way toward where he knew the BLU Sniper nested when he felt a familiar chill run up his spine. He spun around and slashed at the air, not knowing quite where to hit, but knowing that he should. He was gratified with a sick sort of thud as the BLU Spy's cloak fell, his left arm dug into deeply by the blade, sleeve swiftly becoming wetter and wetter with blood.

"This suit costs more than your fucking little knife," the man hissed, ripping himself away. Bits of flesh fell after him like chicks running for their mother; his blood splashed onto the dirt.

The RED Sniper grimaced. "I don't have time for you—"

"Make time," the BLU Spy said, pulling out his handgun.

The RED Sniper pursed his lips. He could run, of course, but the man would shoot him. He knew damned well by now that the BLU Spy was trigger happy; his fingers twitched on the trigger almost as much as they twitched for his cigarettes. There was only one course he could really think of, and it was bothersome.

He took it anyway, slashing at the BLU Spy's face just before he could pull the trigger, grinning when he saw his cheek cut wide open, teeth exposed, blood running down his jaw, even as Sniper's chest was hit with the force of a damned truck. He staggered backward and laughed when the BLU Spy died.

It didn't matter when he followed afterward—they had Respawn. 

* * *

><p>The BLU Spy slammed his hand down on one of the benches in the Respawn room before reaching up to grab a cigarette from the inside of his jacket. The RED Sniper always, always, made the sort of stupid, sudden moves that a man of his profession was not meant to make. He supposed it was because he was an uncivilized bushman. Probably raised by fucking kangaroos.<p>

He lit a cigarette and tucked his cigarette case into his pocket, sliding out his balisong to replace it. If the RED Sniper wanted a game, he would get a game.

The man proved himself foolish enough to try the same plan twice in a row. Even his posture seemed the same when the BLU Spy encountered him: Slightly crouched, hands holding his weapon too tightly, teeth gritted and betraying all of his emotions even as he tried to hide them beneath those stupid sunglasses and ridiculous hat.

This time the BLU Spy merely stabbed him in the back, huffing as the man screamed in his death, as he always did. He gave the blade a little twist before pulling it roughly from the RED Sniper's spine.

"Filth." 

* * *

><p>The RED Sniper growled when he Respawned. Fucking Spies, really, couldn't just stay out of his way and let him do what he meant to do. They were all sneaky like that. All nosy.<p>

He took a different route this time, carelessly treading over the smoking remains of his own team's Soldier (he would just come back angrier than before, probably take down the BLU Demo before the man could blink his single eye) as he ground his molars together. He was listening—to avoid the others in battle, yes, but mainly to avoid the BLU Spy. Or to be a step ahead of him. Whichever it worked out to be was fine.

His caution paid off when he saw his team's Scout jump toward a supposedly empty patch of space, slam his bat downward, and be rewarded by a bleeding, crumpled mess of a man. There was something intensely satisfying about listening to the crunch as the RED Scout followed up with another swing, but the RED Sniper picked up his pace.

When he finally got to the BLU Sniper's nest, he grinned. "Here's for your arrows, you motherfucker." He stabbed the man through the chest while he was scrambling to get his arrows together. "I ain't your pincushion." He had to kick a boot into the man's body to slide it off of his kukri. 

* * *

><p>"And where the hell were you?" the BLU Sniper demanded as the match ended, proclaiming the BLU Team's loss for everyone to hear. The BLU Spy pinched the bridge of his nose.<p>

"I am a Spy, not your caretaker. If you cannot face the RED Sniper on your own, perhaps you deserve to die by his blade." He pushed past the man, ignoring his glare, and lit a cigarette.

"Fucking Snipers." 

* * *

><p>The RED Sniper took a long drag on his cigarette as he watched his team's Spy slink into his room, never congratulating any of his teammates. "Fucking Spies."<p> 


End file.
